


Tested

by cyren2132



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dementia, Friendship, Gen, Protective Parents, Self-Harm, Stilinski Family Feels, Suicidal Imagery, mildly AU, season 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyren2132/pseuds/cyren2132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When counting fingers fails, Stiles takes a more harmful approach to knowing what's real, and Melissa and Stilinski deal with the fallout. Edit: This fic has been updated to reflect the canon name for Sheriff Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cuts

Stiles ran his fingers over the scars that developed on his shoulder like a soldier's stripes. He counted the thin white lines. He knew how many there were. How many there should be, and if it was off by even one, he would know everything was a dream.

This was the route he had taken when counting his fingers stopped working. Scott noticed the faint smell of blood once, but Stiles had anticipated that and purposefully knicked his chin while shaving his depressingly sparse peach fuzz. Scott hadn't noticed again. Too much going on, Stiles figured.

He knew if his mother were here, she'd tell him how wrong it was. That he shouldn't hurt himself, but she wasn't, and it was beginning to feel like all he had. He hadn't meant to start -- and ironically, it had been a shaving mishap that sent him down this path.

He was losing his grip on reality. Couldn't tell real from fake. At first it was sounds. Skittering in the walls and rumblings in the pipes that couldn't possibly be real. But he counted his fingers. Five on each hand. Ten total. He counted his toes for good measure, bringing his digits to an even 20, but the sounds were still there, like whispers calling out to him.

"I'm not asleep," he said to himself. "I'm just tired and the house is old." He looked down while spraying shaving cream in his palm. Not too much. Cash was tight, after all. He had just smeared it across his face when one of the overhead lightbulbs blew, dimming the bathroom.

"Great," he muttered as he brought the blade to his cheek while raising his face to the mirror. Scott was behind him. Not Scott, Scott. Some twisted version of him, dirty and decaying, His eyes cast a sick red glow around the room and one threatened to spill from its socket. He reached a clawed hand for Stiles, and Stiles jerked away, spinning from the reflection, and as he did so, the blade cut across his cheek, bringing the world back into stinging focus.

No Scott -- dead and decaying or otherwise -- was lurking in his bathroom. Two bulbs shone brightly from the ceiling, bathing the room in a bright, white light. The pipes were silent. The walls, too. And Stiles was fully awake, no longer sleepwalking through his morning routine. It made him feel alive in a way he hadn't since that night at the nemeton.

That had been the start of it. And for a while it worked.

But now he was in his dining room. His mother was there, but she wasn't telling him how wrong it was. If anything, she was egging him on. He was a drain on Scott -- the mere mortal keeping him from his full potential as an alpha werewolf. He was a noose around his father's neck, keeping him from moving forward and finding happiness with a new woman. The world would be a better place without Stiles Stilinski.

Frantically, he shoved his fingers under the sleeve of his T-shirt and ran them over the scars, counting each one, then re-counting, and each time coming back with the same, accurate number. He counted his fingers. Five. Ten. He wriggled each toe in his shoes. Fifteen. Twenty.

She was still there, laughing at him. He grabbed the knife he'd been using to chop vegetables -- his dad was going to eat healthy if it killed him -- and made a shallow cut across his arm. She flickered but didn't disappear. He cut again, and again, and again, and on the last one he squeezed his eyes shut and let loose a yell that if he had been a wolf like Scott would have attracted every creature of Beacon County. But he wasn't a wolf. He was just a man. A boy. And he felt so very small. So very light.

A door slammed.

"STILES!"

Stiles turned toward the voice. Blurry eyes focused on his father, pale and staring wide-eyed at him. Something clattered to the floor. A knife. His shirt was hot and sticky. Part of his jeans, too. He saw the blood, then. His. He looked back up at his father. His mother was nowhere to be found.

"Dad?" he whispered. "Is this real?"


	2. Touch

Stilinski heard the yell from his car and hurried inside, expecting to find Stiles asleep on the couch, trapped in a nightmare. The sight before him brought him to a skidding halt and left his breath caught in his throat. His son was standing in their dining room, covered in blood that dripped from his arm and wrist. Stilinski couldn't hear his own voice over his pounding heart, but he must have spoken, because Stiles turned, glassy eyed to face him.

"Dad? Is this real?" The words were soft. Almost a whimper, but they sprung Stilinski into action.

He raced to the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel and a wooden spoon and ran to Stiles, who had sank into a dining chair.

"Dad, what's going on?" Stiles mumbled as Stilinski dropped to one knee.

"Don't worry, Stiles. It's going to be okay," he said as he went to work. He continued to whisper reassurances, perhaps more for himself than Stiles, as he took in the damage. Several cuts were superficial, but one -- the one that supplied the puddle of blood he could feel seeping into the knee of his trousers -- required immediate attention. He wrapped the towel around Stiles' arm and twisted its ends together with the spoon, tying it all into place with more pressure than could ever be achieved by a simple knot.

With that taken care of, he slung Stiles' good arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

"M'phone," Stiles mumbled. "Need m'phone in case Scott..." he raised a limp hand in the direction of the table, but Stilinski swatted it back down and grabbed the cellphone, jamming it into his own pocket before charging through the front door, stumbling down the steps and dropping his son in the passenger seat of his cruiser. In a move he hadn't done since trying to impress Claudia in his academy days, Stilinski hopped over the hood, sliding off the the other side with a gracefulness he didn't have time to marvel over.

His sirens blared as he sped through town. What normally would have been a 15-minute leisurely drive became a 5-minute drag race with time itself. Stiles muttered next to him. Something about fingers and toes and doors that weren't doors. Stilinski didn't understand any of it.

"Hang on Stiles, we're almost there," he said.

He pulled into the ambulance bay with a screech. He cut the engine, killing the siren, but his lights continued to paint the walls in blue and red as he pulled Stiles out of the car, not even bothering to shut the doors. He tried to walk with him, as they had when leaving the house, but Stiles stumbled like dead weight. So Stilinski did the only thing he could: He picked up his boy, paying no mind to his screaming back and burning arms and carried him through the doors.

"Help!" he yelled as the doors slid open. Melissa's head snapped up. Thank god it was Melissa. "Missy, I need help!" No one had called her Missy since the boys were small and the Stilinskis and McCalls would split the cost of a baby-sitter and take in a movie or bowling match. But the old nickname came tumbling out of his lips like it was yesterday.

She was by his side in a flash, pulling a gurney next to him and helping position Stiles atop it.

"What happened?" she asked quickly as they manuevered him down the hall.

"I-I don't know. I just came home and he was-oh, god-"

They reached a trauma room; a doctor was tugging the gurney away. Stilinski tried to hold tight, but Melissa guided him away, back to the waiting room. She pushed lightly on his shoulders, and his legs turned nearly to jelly as he collapsed into a chair.

"We'll take care of him," she whispered before squeezing his hand and rushing back to do just that. Stilinski didn't know how long he had been sitting there before noticing the buzz in his pocket and the faint tune of a Stiles' phone. He pulled it out, but his fingers were stiff with age and dried blood, and he nearly dropped it to the floor, just barely saving it with a lunge forward that tweaked his back and his neck and left him wincing in pain. And for all that, he must have somehow did whatever it was that needed doing to answer the call, because he could hear Scott's tinny voice through the speaker as he pulled it to his ear.

"Stiles, where are you?!" Scott said. "I sent you like 30 texts, we're supposed to meet-"

"Scott." For a second there was silence on the other end.

"Mr. Stilinski," Scott said, his voice adjusting down from the animated high it had been at and beginning to fill worry. "What's wrong?" Stilinski gulped.

"It's Stiles. We're at the hospital." He took a deep breath, planning to try to find the words to say more, but before he could even let it out, Scott spoke.

"I'll be right there."

He didn't know how long it took Scott to get there. Minutes, probably, but he didn't notice him until Scott knelt down and placed a hand over his. Stilinski couldn't help but stare at it. When had his hands gotten so big? He felt sure he should have been able to envelope Scott's palm in his own hand.

But wait. That was before, when he'd cross the street with Stiles on one side and Scott on the other, their floppy-haired heads barely at his elbows and their tiny hands in his. Stilinski couldn't focus, but he could feel the mental exhaustion tugging at him.

Scott laid his other hand on Stilinski's cheek. He could feel the tips of his fingers on his neck. On a normal day, Stilinski would have brushed off the affection. Moved away from it. He was a pretty accepting guy, but his was a generation not quite as touchy-feely as today's youth.

But this wasn't a normal day, and Stilinski found himself leaning into the touch and dipping his head until the two of them were almost brow to brow. His eyes closed and he could feel everything begin to melt away. Not his worry for Stiles. That wouldn't leave until he had visual proof that his son was okay, but the exhaustion began to fade. He could feel his heart rate slow and the aches and pains that had overtaken him recede into nothing. The world came back into focus.

He looked to Scott's eyes just in time to see the red glow fading back to deep brown. His lashes were wet with tears, but so were Stilinski's.

"Thank you," he whispered as he leaned back, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He'd heard of Scott's ability to alleviate pain, but he had no idea it was a gift that applied to emotional trauma as well. Judging by the teen's face, he wondered if Scott had known, either.

Scott took a seat next to Stilinski.

"What happened?" he asked with the same care and a little more calm that his mother had earlier.

Stilinski shook his head and relayed what he knew, which he realized under the stark light of the waiting room was alarmingly little.

They sat in silence until Melissa appeared. Stiliniski leapt to his feet.

"He's going to be fine," Melissa said. "Doctor patched him up, gave him some fluids, and physically, he's going to be fine."

"What does that mean, 'physically'?" Scott asked. Melissa took a deep breath.

"One of the staff psychiatrists is coming in to talk to him, but he wants to keep Stiles overnight on suicide watch."

Suicide watch. The words hung in the air and caused a lump in Stilinski's throat. For all the barely contained panic and urgency that had been flowing through him, he had never really stopped to contemplate the scene he walked into. He'd just responded to it. But now, faced with the reality of what he witnessed, he couldn't deny what it looked like, and it broke his heart.

"How could he do this?" he asked with anger beginning to bubble up. " _Why would he do this?"_ He rose to his feet and Scott followed

"I don't think he knew what he was doing," Scott said. "If he was... I think I'd know. I think I'd feel it. He'd..." his voice dropped to a whisper, "I think he'd smell different or something."

"You think, but you don't know?" he asked.

"No, I don't know. But he'd talk about seeing things, and not knowing if they were real or fake, so maybe-"

"Wait, what?" Stilinski interrupted. "You knew? He was seeing -- he was hallucinating, and you knew? God, Scott." Stilinski balled his hands into fists and rubbed at his face before spinning away and walking to the other end of the waiting room, where he braced himself against the brick wall.

They followed and Scott had just begun to speak when Stilinski whirled around and cut him off, his voice a low, angry hiss.

"Look, we may not be ~*supernatural*~" his fingers twiddled in the air over the word. "We're just regular ol' people, but so is Stiles." The sheriff waved a hand between himself and Melissa "We're still the adults here! When something is wrong you TELL US."

"I'm sorry," Scott stepped backward and averted his eyes, staring at the cracks in the linoleum floor. Stilinski shook his head and stalked away.

"Sweetheart, it's okay," he could hear Melissa say quietly. Her steps echoed across the floor as she walked toward him. She stopped beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak -- whether it was to admonish him or sympathize with him, Stilinski wasn't sure, but he didn't wait to find out.

"Would you please take me to see my son."


	3. Pack

Melissa layered ingredients on a slice of bread. Cheese, turkey, lettuce, one long strip of bacon torn into several pieces, tomato. She spread a thin layer of mayo and squirted a smiley face with mustard on the other slice before completing the sandwich, slicing it in half and wrapping it in foil.

Then she started again. It was methodical work: a job she could do with muscle memory after long nights of packing Scott's lunches a week in advance as a child. And she needed something she didn't have to think about, because her mind was otherwise occupied.

She kept replaying the events of the past few days in her head. Noah Stilinski rushing into the ER, Stiles in his arms. Scott shrinking away from the sheriff like a kicked puppy when Stiles' condition was revealed.

It wasn't until Stiles was being prepped for an MRI that Noah's dwindling anger was completely replaced with concern and fear. He'd noticed the same signs and drawn the same conclusions she had: Stiles was showing symptoms of the same illness that had taken Claudia from them.

They watched through the observation window as Stiles explained everything to Scott.

“ _It's the only form of dementia that can hit teenagers.”_

Melissa could only see the back of his head, but she knew Scott's eyes were widening at the prospect of his best friend losing his mind and dying horribly and slowly. A lot of boys Scott's age might have backed out of the small room, unable to handle the emotion in the air. The potential for loss.

In fact, there might have been a time when Scott would have done it. But whether it was because he was a werewolf, or a true alpha, or a good kid, on this day he stepped closer and embraced his friend. Stiles clung to him like he was a bouy in the ocean, and that was when Noah looked down at his feet.

“That's a good boy you've got,” he said to the linoleum.

She reached down and gently laced her fingers with his.

“You too,” she answered. She meant it for what it was, but she'd be lying if there wasn't a part of her that hoped her words would carry to whatever heavens or fate or dusty old mythology could make Stiles' scans come back normal and healthy and good.

But if it was possible, no one was listening.

As the scans began to show on the room's monitors, Stilinski inhaled sharply and let the breath out in a puff of air that would have been a sob if he had let it. Instead, he held the rest of his breath in, squeezed his eyes shut – she could see tears threatening to spill over – and gripped her hand tighter. She matched his hold, and brought her other hand over to cover theirs.

“It's okay,” she whispered. “We'll get through this.” She didn't hear the word until it was out. Not “You,” or “He” or “You two,” but “We.” If it was strange to him, he didn't show it. Instead, he swallowed deeply and opened his eyes, letting out the breath he was holding with something like a smile.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. He repeated the words before letting her hand go and turning back to the doctor and the scans before them.

Not long after, he'd noticed a similarity between Stiles' scans and Claudia's. Well, more than that. Because they weren't just similar, they were identical. An oddity that maybe shouldn't have been possible? It stuck in his craw, and he was heading to a specialist a day's drive away to find out.

Melissa wasn't sure how to feel. If it wasn't possible, that probably meant some kind of evil fox spirit was possessing Stiles, and nobody knew how to stop him, let alone save him. But if it was possible, and Stiles had inherited more than Claudia's wit?

“ _Stiles if you have it, we'll do something. I'll do something.”_

Scott was an alpha. One bite could turn Stiles into a werewolf and cure his ills, which at first blush certainly felt preferable to evil fox possession. But everything had its consequences.

Scott had told her about the rage and the violence and lack of control he'd felt in his first full moons, and she didn't want that for Stiles or his father. But beyond that, beyond hunters and rival packs, even, was something else. There was a sense of invulnerability that came with being a werewolf, she'd noticed.

Scott was strong. Scott could heal faster than any mortal man. And because he had those gifts, Scott ran head-first into danger most people couldn't even comprehend. It was borderline reckless, and in the deepest part of her soul there was a tiny voice saying one day it would get him killed.

Stiles wasn't like that. Stiles was human. And because of that, his fully-fledged recklessness was always tempered by his recognition that he's not super strong. He can't heal super fast. And so he was the one who made plans – even if they weren't always the best ones – to keep himself somewhat safe-ish.

A Stiles without that?

It was a fear she was forced to deal with. She didn't want Noah to have to deal with it, too.

She couldn't bring herself to tell him that, though. Absent the nogitsune and a way to expel it, the bite was his last hope to save his son. She would never take that away from him. But she just didn't know how to feel about it

And so now she was here, making sandwiches with small amounts of contraband bacon she wouldn't tell Stiles about, fresh veggies that she would, and a few secret cookies tucked into the corner of a small cooler. Stilinski had a long drive ahead of him, and it was only the beginning.

As she worked, Melissa began making a mental list of everything that could happen and how she could help him. What would she do if Stiles was a nogitsune? If he was werewolf? If, for whatever reason, he refused the bite, and was a teenager with dementia?

All of those scenarios were major tests that she didn't have all the answers for, but she wouldn't let Noah sit for them alone.

They shared a bond. Them, and Chris Argent, too. They were more than friends. They were more than family. They were parents.

They were pack.


End file.
